The Ornament
by unilocular
Summary: When Tony breaks down in public, Tim isn't quite sure how to handle it. Holiday-themed. Emotional!Tony. Strong!Tim. Bromance.


**Title:** The Ornament  
 **Summary:** When Tony breaks down in public, Tim isn't quite sure how to handle it. Holiday-themed. Emotional!Tony. Strong!Tim. Bromance.  
 **Rating** : Teen for language  
 **Spoilers/Warnings:** General series spoilers.

 **Author's Note:** _Merry Christmas.  
_

 _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Stuck alone in the Charger, Tim stares at the tiny antique store across the street. The icy air outside sneaks inside the car, curls itself around him. He tucks his hands to his chest, struggling to pull whatever warmth he can out of his trench coat. He works his fingers to ward off frostbite starting in the tips.

He glances towards the ignition. Empty.

 _Of course, Tony took the keys in there with him._

Tony said it would be just a minute. _Twenty freaking minutes ago._

Making a face, Tim glares back at the antique store as though he could will Tony out of there by mental power alone. If Jedi Mind Tricks worked across the street and through walls, they would be well on their way back to NCIS by now.

But no amount of staring—and glaring and willing—could bring Tony back from 'checking on a lead.' For some crazy reason, he told—rather, ordered—Tim to stay in the car. And being the good little junior agent, Tim followed the order.

Of course, there isn't any lead. Tony is in there chatting up that pretty, blonde cashier and leaving Tim to slowly freeze to death in the car.

Tim grits his teeth, rolls his eyes.

With just two days to go until Christmas, they should be celebrating an easy bust. They should be in the bullpen, finishing up their reports and counting down the minutes until their holiday break. Their first holiday without an active case, without being on call. Because with all the soldiers and sailors on leave, it's just a matter of time before one of them ends up underneath a tree with a knife in their back.

 _If we're still at work when Gibbs gets that call, we're screwed._

When Tim's phone chirps, he checks it to find a text from Ziva: _Gibbs says if you would like to see Christmas, you and Tony should return with your donkeys._

Tim flinches. _I think you mean asses, Ziva._

Her reply is almost instantaneous: _You should bring those as well._

Wrinkling his nose, Tim pockets his phone. He worries his coat sleeve, debating about whether he should just stay here or go into the store to cock-block Tony. If they're late getting back to work, Gibbs will bury him and Tony in enough paperwork to keep them pulling all-nighters until New Year's. If he interrupts Tony's attempts to find himself a Miss Clause, Tim will probably spend the long holiday weekend super-glued to his desk.

Tim presses his hand to his eyes.

 _Gibbs scares me a hell of a lot more than Tony. Plus, Abby bought me that nail polish remover for Christmas last year so I should good if Tony breaks out the Krazy-Glue._

Hoping that Tony is the lesser of two evils, Tim slides out into the frigid afternoon. He turns his collar up against the blustering wind. Wet snowflakes begin to topple from the sky like drunken fairies, riding and dancing on the squall. From the window of the NCIS building, it might be beautiful. Now, he just worries about how pissed Gibbs will be when traffic makes them late.

By the time Tim slips into the store, he is frozen and soaked _and livid._ When Gibbs kicks their asses, it will be all Tony's fault because he just had to get laid. Today of all days.

The store reeks of wet paper, old people, and mothballs. Tim is just thankful that its dry and the heat is set to molten lava. Dust particles cling to the air, and with the heat, make it hard to breathe. Tim moves past intricately carved wooden furniture covered with dirty glass jars, ugly patterned china and plastic—and porcelain and wax and wood—Santas in every size, shape, and color imaginable.

When Tim sidles up to the front counter, that blonde cashier tries to murder him with her smile again. He suddenly understands why Tony is going to make them late. Tim might have tried to just get her number too. If Tony hadn't already called dibs.

Tim grins at her because _'tis the Season._

"Your friend's in the back," she says, gesturing towards a display of Christmas trees.

"T-t-thanks," Tim says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Did you see that it's snowing outside?"

She laughs. "Yeah."

Before he has a chance to say anything else, she heads into the back office.

He makes a face at himself.

 _Real smooth, Tim. And you wonder why Tony always gets the dates._

Then he reminds himself that he's here to get Tony before Gibbs comes down here. Because if Gibbs has to leave NCIS, they'll both get dead. And then, there won't be any dates for anyone.

Tim weaves his way through a makeshift aisle of bureaus and bed frame. He zigs this way and until he reaches a tall, fake tree covered with vintage ornaments and old string lights with a frayed cord that looks like it'd burn your house straight to the ground.

Tony stands with his back to Tim, transfixed by _something._

 _What the hell is he doing?_

"Hey Tony, Gibbs is looking for us," Tim says, trying to keep his anger in check.

When Tony doesn't reply, Tim rolls his eyes.

"Come on, Tony. I'd like to get back to work before Christmas."

But Tony still doesn't say _anything._

When Tim grabs Tony's shoulder, he feels the hitch in his partner's body, feels how tightly his arms are crossed to his chest. Tony bristles, turning away, but there is no missing the sound of snot and sniffling.

Tim's heart jumps right into his throat because if he didn't know any better, he'd think Tony might be crying. But that's just ludicrous because Tony doesn't cry…let alone in the middle of a store. Tony is the kind of guy who's more likely to crush beer cans on his head or have a different date every night of the week than get in touch with his softer side in public.

Tony rubs the back of his hand against his nose. There's that sound of mucous and snorfling again.

 _Shit._

Tim stands stock-still, wondering whether he could make it back to the car unnoticed. Finding his partner crying in the middle of the store was _so_ not what he expected. At all. It's like finding out that Ziva has a collection of stilettos or that Abby has a secret obsession with Katy Perry or that Gibbs actually guzzles decaf. How the hell is Tim supposed to deal with _this_?

Tim starts casing the exits. If he can just get to that bureau before Tony notices –

"I didn't realize you were there, McGee," Tony says, his voice softer than Tim is used to.

 _Shit on a shingle._

And before his mind catches up, Tim pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket. Then like he is watching someone else controlling his body, he offers it to Tony.

Tony gives Tim a strange look. "What's that for?"

"For that stuff…" Tim gestures to his own cheeks. "You know, for that stuff all over your face."

A single tear cascades down Tony's cheek. When he takes the handkerchief, Tony musters up the best annoying grin as he can. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"I bet this thing is full of McBoogers, huh?" Tony tries so damned hard to be funny, but his heart just isn't in it.

Tim half-smiles. "Too bad. I'm fresh out of those."

"Great. Good." Tony lets out a hiccupped, strangled laugh. "That's great news."

"Yeah."

With his head bobbing like a wind-up toy, Tony turns away to chase a few tears away. He blows his nose and adds a bunch of DiBoogers to Tim's handkerchief. Tim stares at the tree, the wall, the ceiling, _anything_ to avoid looking at his partner. Because coming across a grown man—who's been beaten half to death, been held at gunpoint, almost dumped off a parking structure, and just a general, all-around badass—bawling is not awkward. No, not at all.

When Tony offers the handkerchief to Tim, he shakes his head. "That's all yours now, Tony."

Tony nods again. "Thanks."

They stand in silence long enough to make Tim's skin crawl. He plays with the sleeve of his coat, shuffles around on his feet, glances back towards some of the antiques while Tony stares dead ahead at the Christmas tree. Even though he wants to ask what's going on, Tim just can't find the courage or the words.

Somewhere deeper in the store, an old recording of a choir singing Christmas carols plays. It skips a few times— _scritch, scritch, scritch—_ before the long, slow drawl of a contratenor singing _The Little Drummer Boy_ threatens to send Tony over the edge again. He hiccups into the back of his hand.

Tim takes a step back. "Gibb is going to – "

"I always hated this Christmas carol," Tony says quietly.

Tim blinks. "Why?"

"My mom used to make me sing a solo every Christmas Eve." Tony makes a face, but for some reason, the memory sends more tears down his cheeks. "Every year. In front of the whole family. Both sides, the DiNozzos and the Paddingtons and whoever the hell else my family invited."

Tim tilts his head. "That sounds like it sucked."

Tony makes a noise that's caught between a hiccup and a laugh. "It did, but I just wanted to make my mom happy. I just wanted to see her smile."

"I'm sure you did, Tony."

"Sorry, McGee, I just never thought I'd see one of these again." His gaze turns back to the Christmas tree. "And it just…I don't know, dug up something I wasn't expecting."

"What's that, Tony?" Tim asks, moving closer to his friend.

Tony picks up an ornament that's a ball with a deep-set star in the middle of it. The years have muted the colors, taking what was once a vibrant red and green to an off-pink and ghastly lime with a dull, dirty-mirrored finish. It reminds Tim of the ornaments that he used to help his mother and grandmother put up every year when his father was out at sea.

"What's so special about that one?" Tim asks.

"My father gave it to my mom the Christmas before she died," Tony says quietly.

Tim glances over at him. "How do you know it belonged to your mom?"

Turning over the ornament, Tony displays the initials _ADD + JCD_ in tiny, block script on the back. Then he says, his face turning wistful. "That was the last real Christmas I ever had. I spent it at my home with my family like a normal kid. My mom and I watched _It's a Wonderful Life_ over and over while my dad read in his easy chair. I fell asleep waiting for Santa."

Tim smiles sadly. "That sounds nice."

"It _was_ nice. Santa brought a lot of good presents that year. Roller skates, a bike, my very first suit." Unconsciously, Tony straightens the lapel of his designer jacket. Before Tim has a chance to say anything, Tony asks: "What was your best Christmas present, McGee?"

"The Mac that I got in middle school." He winces when he realizes just how _nerdy_ that sounds. "Before that it was my little sister. Even though I wrote Santa a letter in January begging him to take her back to the North Pole, I was stuck with her. Sarah grew on me. Eventually."

"I asked for a sibling every year, but Santa always forgot." Tony half-smiles, rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry for getting all emotional, Tim. I just wasn't expecting to ever see one of these ornaments again. They were all sold at auction after my dad lost…well, that isn't really important."

Even though Tim wants to know what happened to Tony's family, he stands there, just listening. In all their years together, Tony has never laid down his walls to give Tim a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Dare he say, Tim actually _likes_ the real Tony.

Tony hazards a glance at Tim like he doesn't know what to expect from his partner after his confession, like the younger man just might hold it over his head. His eyes are heavy and world-weary like a man doomed to wander the earth alone until the end of time. After a stilted sigh, Tony reaches for the ornament as though it might vanish before his eyes if he doesn't grab it.

At that moment, Tony's cell phone rings.

He answers on the second ring. "DiNozzo….oh yeah, boss, hi….uh, no, we didn't forget about you… McGee and I were just on our way back…I had to interview the store clerk, remember? Uh no, I wasn't trying to get her number, though I should probably – ….yeah, boss. Loud and clear. We'll be back soon."

Pocketing the phone, Tony nods resolutely. Almost like a switch was flipped, the vulnerable and exposed man is gone, quickly replaced by the movie-quoting and spitball-toting prankster Tony pretends to be.

He thumps Tim on the back. "Alright, Probie, you heard the Bossman. Let's get back to the office."

Tim gestures towards the ornament. "Aren't you going to buy that?"

"You betcha." After he plucks it from the tree, Tony drops his gaze to the ground. "Say, McGee. Can you do me a favor?"

"Pretend like you didn't just go all sappy on me." Tim waves his hand in front of his face like he's performing a Jedi Mind Trick. "I will forget everything that I just saw. There, done."

"You are such a McGeek." Tony's laugh makes Tim grin. "Now, let's get out of here."

"I'll catch up," Tim says, eyeing the tree. "I need to hit the bathroom. It was, uh, the reason why I came in here in the first place."

"Ah. Just don't take all day."

After Tim nods, Tony starts to leave. He makes it a few steps before he stops in his tracks, wavering, considering. Eventually, he says quietly: "Thanks, Tim."

Tim nods. "Don't mention it, Tony."

Then just like that, he's gone. Moments later, the whir of the antique cash register and hushed whispers between Tony and the cashier echo through the store. Once the bell on the door jingles to tell Tim that Tony is finally headed back to the car, Tim gets to work. He carefully works his way through the entire tree of ornaments, searching for ones that have the initials _ADD_ or _JCD_ on them.

As it turns out, more than just one of Tony's family treasures ended up here. By the time he's done, Tim discovers two once gold—now, bronze—stars and a hand carved wooden angel with a crooked, pewter halo and a mischievous grin. He takes them up front, plunks down his credit card and flashes that pretty cashier his best smile. She just hands him a paper bag of ornaments and a receipt.

He collects his purchase, then heads outside. Since he left the car, the snow falls quicker and heavier. It accumulates on the cars, the sidewalks, the streets in haphazard piles and drifts as though a child sprinkled it while they skipped through the city. The street lights burn in the waning daylight, glowing sulfur in the darkness.

The Charger is still on the curb, headlights on and windshield wipers going. When Tim slides into the passenger seat, he is thankful Tony has the heat on full blast.

Raising his eyebrows, Tony checks his watch. "Took you long enough, McPea-Sized Bladder. Ziva would've been in and out quicker than you. And she's a _girl._ "

"Tony, she's a _woman_." Laughing, Tim passes the bag to his friend. "Merry Christmas."

Brow furrowed, Tony stares at the present as though it might retribution for all the pranks he pulls on Tim. When he glances inside, surprised cascades over his face, followed by a genuine smile. Tears well at the edges of his eyes before they fall down his cheeks. For the first time, Tim renders Tony speechless.

Tim clamps his arm around Tony's shoulder, giving him a very macho—and extremely awkward—one-armed hug. Surprisingly, Tony leans into it.

"Thanks, Tim," Tony says, all choked up and overcome and _so un-Tony._ "I never…I never expected there to be anymore there. No one's ever done anything like this for me. Why would you go through so much trouble?" He blinks hard. "For me?"

"Because you're my friend," Tim says simply.

That makes Tony's shoulder hitch all over again. His face twists with raw emotion as he cries harder. He turns away from Tim, fumbles with the bag to pull out the angel. His trembling fingers run over the careful carvings on the angel's face. When he turns it over, he runs his thumb over the _JCD_ as though he could absorb more memories from the act.

Eventually, he whispers: "You know, Gibbs is going to kill us for being late."

Tim shrugs. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Tony chuckles through his tears.

"Why don't you tell me about it," Tim says, more statement than question.

"It was my mother's favorite. I…" Tony voice trails off when he seems to think better of it. "You probably don't give a crap about my sob story."

"Actually, I'd love to hear about your mom," Tim says, settling in. "It's not like Gibbs is going anywhere."


End file.
